


A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

by sleepy_firebug



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_firebug/pseuds/sleepy_firebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolf AU. Alfred is a hunter, making his living travelling from village to village and protecting those who can't protect themselves. It's a great life, at least until his latest job involving a pack of thieving wolves and a strange shepherd turns everything he thought he knew on its head. Alfred just might have bitten off more than he can chew this time around... and he's going to pay the price.  Eventual mature rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

There were plenty of jobs out there for a guy with a strong arm and a handful of wits, but most of them lacked one very important thing: adventure.

It's a good thing that he'd found one of the few that didn't.

Farming or shepherding like so many others just wasn't for him; no, Alfred F. Jones had made himself into a hunter, and a damned good one at that. He travelled the reaches of the tiny kingdom of Britannia laying all sorts of creepy nonsense to rest and making a pretty penny off of it while he did. Alfred followed the rumours, wandering from village to village and making the sort of name for himself that pretty much guaranteed that he'd never go hungry or without someone to warm his bed.

Yeah, he had the life.

Of course, it wasn't all mead and maidens. Being a threat made the young man a prime target for those he swore to kill, and it was rare for many days to pass without an attempt being made on his life, whether in the line of duty or along the road. But he'd grown used to such things, and he wasn't still alive because of sheer dumb luck. Alfred fought and he survived.

"So," he slowly drawled, looking over the bedraggled group of elders at the latest town he'd stumbled into during his travels, no different than the last handful he'd found himself in; small, dreary, and smelling pungently of sheep. "You've got what, some wolves killing your sheep? That's it? No bandits, no rogue sorcerers, not even some ugly guy with a bad hangover? You need my help with some  _dogs_?"

"Is there a problem with that?" The largest of them spoke up with a gravelly voice, a giant of a man with ice blue eyes that bored into Alfred as if they could see right through him. "We will pay you for your time."

"...How much?"

The man dug a pouch of silver from his breeches and held it up for the young man to see. "This, and a new sword. Just bring us proof that you've slaughtered the beasts and they're yours."

Hell, this would be easy. He barely even needed time to think about it, nodding and shooting the other a wide grin. "Throw in a jug of whiskey to keep me warm in the fields and you've got yourself a deal. Give me a couple of nights and you'll have your wolves."

Too bad that the whole 'easy' thing was an out-and-out lie.

Several nights passed without hide nor hair of the creatures, and for a man used to action, the wait began to grate at his nerves. Alfred waited the first night seated in a corner of the pasture with his crossbow in his lap, but on the second he began to wander, traversing the perimeter of the fields in hopes of capturing a glimpse of his prey. For wolves as ravenous as the ones he'd been told stories about, he couldn't see how they'd keep away from such easy pickings for too long, not after they'd been helping themselves to sheep on an almost nightly basis.

To say he was beginning to feel frustrated would be an understatement. Patience had never been his forte.

It wasn't until the third night that he finally spotted something during his nightly wanderings, though it was not the wolves he sought but rather a lone shepherd, a blond haired youth who'd apparently decided to brave the danger and keep an eye on his flocks. He watched him silently for several hours from a perch atop an old stone wall before slowly making his way over to where Alfred stood brooding at the edge of the forest. The moonlight shone bright enough to reveal green eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, though the faint frown that drew his impressive eyebrows low was more than enough to distract him from them. "Are you the hunter they've sent to watch the fields?"

"Yep, that's me," Alfred replied, patting the stock of his crossbow and grinning. "Those wolves' days are numbered now that I'm here. Nobody outsmarts Alfred F. Jones, especially not a pack of mangy mutts."

If it were possible the young man's frown grew even deeper for a moment, before a hint of recognition seemed to light his face. " _The_  Alfred F. Jones? The mercenary?"

Al shook his head. "I ain't a soldier for hire. I just travel around taking care of pests, saving damsels in distress, protecting those who can't protect themselves. You know, a hero. All I ask for is a fair wage for my services so that I can eat."

The shepherd looked less than convinced, eyeing Alfred up as if he were were something he'd scraped off of the bottom of his boot. "Oh, how selfless of you," he grumbled, shifting the staff he was holding from one arm to another and looking downright perturbed. Alfred was beginning to think that such a look was commonplace on his face. "Killing things is so noble, of course, especially animals who are just doing what they're bloody meant to do."

"Look, man, the only good wolf is a dead wolf. Haven't they been eating your sheep too? Do you  _want_  to starve?"

The disgruntled expression never left the other's face. "Everything deserves a chance at life, boy, even the predators. At least wolves don't find the sick, twisted pleasure in murdering others that humans do."

"Wait a second!" The odd shepherd had already turned to leave, and blatantly pretended not to hear anything more that Alfred said. "Were you referring to me when you said that? If you were, I don't appreciate it. Come back here and face me like a man!" Wry laughter and a rude gesture over the other's shoulder was his only response, and it wasn't long until he disappeared completely from Alfred's sight to leave him and the rest of the night alone.

The fourth night came cloaked in an unnatural silence.

Alfred didn't often feel uneasy while he worked; on edge, yes, but not stretched as tightly as a bowstring and every hair on his body standing on end. Something watched him from the shadows, but who or what he could not for the life of him tell. Unable to stand still, Alfred began patrolling the edge of the field once more, wide blue eyes darting feverishly through the darkness in some vain hope of spotting his invisible tormentor.

Several hours passed before he heard the scream.

It wasn't a human scream, no, but the scream of a terrified animal coming from just beyond the wall to the next field. Alfred sprang into action, his crossbow loaded and held in a firm grip as he sprinted towards the sound. Gods, it was bad enough to have missed the beasts for so many nights now, but to lose another sheep on his watch? Alfred's pride refused to allow it. Skidding to a stop just before the rough stone wall, he peeked up over it with his crossbow at the ready. He had just enough of a chance to spot a pack of wolves tearing a hapless ewe to shreds before something leapt straight for him.

It was a wolf, but not like any wolf he'd ever seen: this beast must have been twice the size of its brethren, pale in colour and all claw and snarling fangs. Alfred didn't even have a chance to cry out before it was upon him, knocking his weapon from his hands and slamming him back into the grass as if he were little more than a child; he kicked and lashed out, but the beast was faster, pinning him down and snapping those wicked teeth bare inches from his face and throat.

_I'm going to die._

But just as he'd closed his eyes and set his jaw for the killing bite, the beast atop him stilled. Trembling from an overload of adrenalin and fear, the hunter remained as he was, unable to look upon his murderer until hot breath in his face and a pointed snarl sent his eyes fluttering open of their own accord. The wolf stared down at him, an almost human sense of satisfaction glowing in those dark eyes as it began to...

_Oh gods._

_Oh gods,_ no!

With a sickening crack of bones and popping ligaments and the fleshy sound of migrating muscle, the wolf's body began to shift right atop Alfred. Sticky fluids rained down on him along with clumps of pale fur while joints rearranged themselves into the form of a man, and not just any man: the man he'd met in the fields only a few days before, grinning down at him with a maddened gleam in his eyes as he held Alfred down with supernatural strength. The hunter whimpered as he felt the pressure in his bladder relent and a shameful warmth spread over the front of his breeches. "What's wrong, poppet?" The man -no,  _creature_ \- rasped. "Don't you don't like being on the receiving end of this little game?"

He'd been caught by a werewolf. He was as good as dead.

"N-no," Alfred replied, his voice not nearly as strong as he wished it to be. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

"Didn't know what?" The werewolf crouched down to thrust his face into Alfred's, teeth bared in a snarl. "That my clan deserves to eat just as much as those goddamned villagers? That you'd picked the wrong pack to stalk like a child with your stupid little toy crossbow? That their alpha was a  _monster_?"

"I never said that!"

"Oh, but you're thinking it, aren't you?" Even naked and wiry this... this thing was terrifying. "That's what your kind does, attacking and killing things that it doesn't understand. I keep my children away from the humans even when the hunger gnaws at our bellies, and this is the thanks we get? To be hunted down like vermin?"

Something gleamed in the werewolf's eyes then, something that filled Alfred's heart with dread. "Maybe you need a new perspective on life, hmm?" A razor-edged claw drifted down the line of the hunter's throat, pausing at the throbbing pulse at the side of his neck. "Maybe if you were forced to run through the forest on four legs instead of two, you'd realize how small your barmy little human mind was."

"No! No, please!" Alfred's struggles began anew, thrashing and bucking against the weight pinning him to the ground yet unable to throw him, unable to stop that sharply grinning face from ducking down to nuzzle against his neck. He didn't know much about werewolves, but what little he did know was that to be bitten by the cursed meant he'd become one himself, a monster, an outcast. "I don't want- You can't!"

"You have two choices, you damned fool," the werewolf growled, his breath hot against Alfred's skin. "You tell the townsfolk that we're dead and collect your bounty, we move on, and I'll let you live. Or you can die right here like a sheep for my children to feast on."

He could feel dampness on his cheeks as he swallowed and struggled to calm his mind, as if he could possibly think rationally when faced with such a choice. "I... I don't want either. But I don't want to die."

"Then be thankful that you got a choice," the creature snapped. "Now unless you want your fucking throat torn out, I suggest you lie still."

Alfred's world exploded into pain as the werewolf's teeth sank into the meat of his neck, and then went suddenly dark.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when Alfred awoke, his mouth feeling as though it'd been stuffed with cotton and his brain pounding a dull staccato inside of his skull while his stomach rolled queasily. The hunter curled over onto his side and instantly regretted the action as his stomach rebelled and he retched violently over the flattened grass next him. Everything felt... gods, he didn't even know, too bright, too loud, like the morning after too much bad ale but a hundred times worse. Miserably he pushed himself back away from the mess and threw an arm over his eyes, hoping to block out some of the light and hide from the world a little longer.

It took a while for the events of the previous night to surface in the man's muddled brain, and when they did, Alfred nearly threw up again. It just couldn't be possible. Shaking fingers pressed cautiously against his neck and found a raised mass of scars where there hadn't been any before, the sort of scars left by an animal bite. As much as he wanted to deny it all, how could he when the evidence of it lay right there for all to see? Only hours before he'd been mauled by a werewolf, but the flesh had healed over as though it had happened months before. If that wasn't proof that he'd Changed, nothing was.

Mechanically Alfred unwrapped the sash from around his waist and used it to bind his neck, hoping that it would be enough to keep people from asking questions. He didn't know what was going to happen now; would he turn into a slavering, vicious beast without any sense of right or wrong? Or would he have some measure of control, some way to curb the curse and keep himself from harming others? He'd heard so many stories of the werefolk -and none of them good- but he'd never expected...

Fuck, he was in so much trouble.

It wasn't until he'd managed to heave himself upright that he discovered the pelts at his side, three cleaned and fresh wolf skins to take back as 'proof' of his heroic deeds. The thought left a taste more terrible than bile in his mouth. They looked like pelts and they smelled of wild animal, but a newborn sense deep in the pit of his stomach told him that they were no more wolf than he was human, at least not any more. He fingered them dully. Magic, perhaps? Whatever it was, it'd be more than enough to fool the townsfolk, and that's all that mattered.

After cleaning himself up a bit and rinsing out his clothing at the stream on the edge of the pasture, the hunter slowly made his way back to the town. Usually this was his grand entrance, the hero returning with great fanfare to inform the people of his deeds in return for song and coin, but not today. Today he barely managed a weak smile when the villagers realized he'd returned to them with wolf pelts slung over his back, proof of the end of their plight.

Yes, their plight had ended. But Alfred's had only begun.

"You have our thanks," the tallest of the elders told him later, clasping Alfred's arm in a warm gesture of gratitude. "My wife is determined to put together a feast in your honour if you'd care to join us."

"...No. I'm sorry, but... I have to be moving on." The hunter took the small bag of his reward and weighed it briefly in the palm of his hand before tucking it away. He needed to get away from here as soon as possible, for he didn't know when or how he might shift, and he couldn't put these simple people in danger for the sake of a meal. "I appreciate the gesture, believe me, but this is payment enough."

The elder peered at him in confusion. "We also promised you a sword, as you'll remember."

"Oh yeah, that's right." He shifted uncomfortably as another man brought a linen-wrapped blade forward and held it out for him to take. When the material fell away, Alfred couldn't help but gasp; the sword wasn't anything fancy, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it sat perfectly balanced in his hand and looked to be of masterful craftsmanship. "Oh wow. Wow, that is nice."

"I thought you might like it," the man who'd passed it to him chuckled, inclining his head in a slight bow. "It's good solid steel infused with silver, a trick my old master taught me. I'm not a sorcerer by any means, but I know just enough magic to make the binding hold, and it'll be plenty strong enough to poison the worst of the dark beasts you might encounter."

Alfred swallowed, suddenly glad for the worn leather gloves shielding his hands. The last thing he needed was to have been handed silver and find out the hard way what it might do to him. "You're too kind," he murmured, sliding it into the proffered sheath and buckling it at his side. "I will... put it to good use."

* * *

He slipped away as soon as he was able, trading coin for little more than some dried meat and another jug of whiskey before heading back the way he'd come, down towards the pastures where his life had been violently upended. Alfred stood there for a long while, eyes staring vacantly towards the horizon as he thought. Only the morning before he'd felt bold, confident, ready to take on the world. Now uncertainty gnawed at him. He was still alive, sure, but at what cost? At one point he'd pulled the purse from his belt and poured the coins into his bare hand, holding them for only a moment before the skin blistered and scorched as if he'd stuck it into a fire and he tossed the lot into the grass, cursing violently.

Apparently the part about werewolves and silver was true, after all.

He wondered what else was true, what other horrors he'd be subjected to now that he'd Changed. He refused to believe that everything he'd heard could be real, that he'd crave the taste of human flesh and slaughter whole villages for sport, that he'd be little more than a mindless animal. The werewolf who'd done this to him had been evidence enough to the contrary.

As Alfred watched as the skin of his hand slowly began to heal itself, he came to a decision. He'd find that damned werewolf and get his answers one way or another. They had to be on more equal footing now, right? He must be stronger, faster, and his senses...

The hunter inhaled sharply, surprised to find that he could smell the scent of the wolf pack from the night before and the even stranger scent of what could only be its leader, musk and blood and something else. Yeah, his senses were definitely a million times better. He bet that with a little practice he could track them down without too much trouble, and he'd face that bastard and find out what he needed to know.

And if there turned out to be no hope for his own condition, well... he'd put his new sword to good use.


End file.
